


Embers

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 12:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5828317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the week since he left Hawke, Fenris's markings have been giving him extraordinary pain. When he ends up facing mages in battle, things only get worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embers

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the popular headcanon that Fenris's markings react to his emotional state, which is a headcanon I have rarely, if ever, incorporated into my fic so I thought I should mention it here.

When the apostate engulfs him in a wave of spirit energy, Fenris thinks for a moment he has been set on fire instead.

But there are no flames dancing merrily around him. He only burns. More are coming for him, men with blades or clubs. The force of the spell knocked him off his feet, and it is only with great effort he manages to stand again. He cannot fall yet, much as he wishes to. He raises his sword to a guard—tries, but the brands are coils of white-hot razor wire wrapped around his limbs, and moving draws them tight as an assassin’s garrote. He grunts at the flare of pain, and his guard falls. _Venhedis._ They are coming. One, two, three of them—

In the dim tunnel the glint of light off of armor. Aveline plants herself in front of him, shield raised. The temperature drops, and ice plunges over the gathered thugs. Aveline’s sword jabs hard into one of the frozen statues, and his flesh shatters like stone. The next one she bashes to pieces with her shield. Then Hawke appears from the dark and drives both daggers into the third man’s lower back.

The shower of icy fragments hasn’t even finished hitting the ground before he’s on his way to Fenris, urgent. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Fenris plants his sword in the dirt and leans on it, taking shallow breaths. The lyrium is tight around his chest as well. “No. That apostate’s spell…reacted poorly with my markings, that is all. The pain caught me off-guard. But I am fine.”

Aveline sheathes her sword. “Are you sure? You look like you’re about to fall over.” She grasps his arm for support—

He flinches hard and gasps despite himself at the searing in his skin. Aveline jerks her hand away, abashed. “I—I’m sorry—“

“It’s all right. You didn’t know.” He shakes his head and stops when it makes him dizzy. “They will cease hurting before long. We can keep going.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to help?” Anders mumbles from the back.

Fenris half-smiles. “No need to sound so eager, mage. No, I suspect more magic will only make it worse.”

“Right then. Guess I’ll just have to keep all my magic for myself.”

Hawke is quiet, but his face is drawn in a concern Fenris cannot bear to see. So he looks away, standing straight and replacing his sword on his back.

Just over a week since he left the estate in the middle of the night and still he cannot quite figure out why—why he _had_ to leave, why he could not bring himself to stay even a moment longer. He only knows that the agitation sparking restless inside him threatened to burn him out completely if he did not flee.

It’s the lyrium that’s been burning since. It hurts him sometimes, a dull, tight ache as integral to him as the weight of his armor, or of the sword on his back. But has not burned like this since the earliest days of his abbreviated memory. There were times when it grew fitful—during his stay with the Fog Warriors, and after his escape. But not this badly. Never this badly. It seethes as if trying to split his skin and break free of him entirely. The brush of magic has always invoked a reaction in it; but that, too, is much worse now, and spirit energy the worst of all.

He trudges after Aveline and dearly hopes there are no more mages down these tunnels. She didn’t have much information on this gang—a new organization, it seems, one she wished to crush before it could grow any bigger. So they don’t know what’s waiting for them, only that something _is,_ as far as Aveline knows.

It’s possible they’re expected. Fenris tightens his jaw against the prickling burn in his markings and hopes this will all be over soon. Then Hawke whispers, “Hold,” so they stop.

Hawke cocks his head, listening. Then he nods, pointing ahead. More enemies. Fenris has a fluttering moment of doubt—can he do this? should he tell them what’s happening to him?—but no. The pain washes back a little, as a wave recedes over sand. They are depending on him. He must fight.

Aveline strides forward, and Fenris follows.

A good thing Hawke’s hearing is so acute, as Fenris would not have spotted them hiding in the shadows; the torches on the walls have all been put out. But the mage conjures a great flame that roars in the middle of the floor, and Fenris can see again. He raises his blade—the brands biting into him, but he must fight, he _must_ fight. He knows how to control this pain, has fought before when spirit magic set his markings alight. More than one spirit mage tried to assassinate Danarius over the years, and the Tal-Vashoth and Seheron natives both favored that school. He knows how.

But still he cannot do it. He grasps at the pain and tries to lock it down, only for it to spill between his fingers like molten metal and encase him once again. There is a woman swinging an mace at him, and he blocks. When the mace strikes his sword it sets the metal ringing, and the jar shoots down his arms. Too much— _pathetic,_ he thinks distantly, as the block fails, his sword-tip burying itself in the dirt. She swings again, and he makes a clumsy dodge. Her weapon grazes his face, the sharp flange cutting into the skin over his cheekbone. Even the glancing impact is enough to spin his head to the side, and he staggers. She’s going to strike him again. He must recover, _now._

He ducks forward, heaving his body into hers. An inelegant maneuver, and the mace lands in his side. Not very hard, but he can feel the burgeoning bruise, the flanges splitting open the flesh over his ribs. She stumbles, off-balance; Fenris drags the pommel of his sword up and bashes her in the temple. She stays on her feet. Not strong enough. _Venhedis._ Fenris tries again with what strength he can scavenge under this all-consuming pain. This time the strike knocks her out, and she crumples.

Fenris steps back. Aveline and Anders have the rest occupied. Just a few seconds to breathe—

A ghost-white crest of spirit energy crashes over him and puts him on the ground.

The agony blinds him. He is aware that his markings are glowing, but the light is hazy and far away. His weapon is…somewhere, lost from his hands. He lies curled in the dirt. Hurts. It hurts. No. He has to get up. There are people trying to kill him and his companions. He struggles to push himself upright—the brands like a slaver’s net trapping him to the ground—where is the enemy? All he sees are blurred shapes against a tower of flame. A scraping sound to his left. He looks up, for all the good it’ll do. A figure, encroaching—

—letting out a scream as a great hulking shadow appears behind it. More scraping. They’re coming for him. Fenris staggers to his feet. His sword. Where is his sword? He’ll never find it in time. Unarmed, then. He assembles a stance, the lyrium drawn tight against him, resisting him at every second. Blue-white eats at the edges of his vision. Movement in the murk before him.

And a glitter, off to the side.

This time when the spell gusts over him he is shielded, something wrapping him up as he thuds to the ground. But the mere proximity of the spirit energy inflames the markings, stoking the lyrium burn to new heights. This time he cannot repress a moan of pain. Then smoke bursts thick in the air and he coughs—that hurts too, his chest heaving against the glowing cage of his brands. Shouting, close to his ear, and then across the room. Someone lifts him. A murmured voice. “Stay down, we’ve got you.”

Stay—no. He shakes his head. He _knows_ how to control this, he just has to try harder.

 _“Please,_ Fenris.”

He is set down and left alone again. The smoke is thinner here, and he sits up, squinting. He won’t be a dead weight. He can still fight. The tidal rhythm of the lyrium burn has turned into a pulse now, bounding like the pulse of his blood through his body. His heart thuds against his ribs, and his breaths come shallow and quick.

A figure dashes in front of him. “If you try and get back out there, let me remind you that I haven’t got _any_ qualms about tripping you with my staff. In fact, I’d probably enjoy it. So let me suggest you stay there.”

The mage. Fenris grimaces—

—and flinches as he casts. It isn’t spirit magic but with how sensitive the brands are, it still irritates them, again and again with every spell. The pulse quickens and rises until it’s a constant, surrounding him, a storm he cannot escape. Fenris stays very still, his eyes stinging. He would surrender, if he could. He would yield, he would give himself up if only it would stop.

It takes him a moment to realize Anders isn’t casting anymore, and the shouts and the clashes of metal on metal have ceased. His vision clears a little, and the sound of his own breathing rasps in his ears. It’s over. Finally. He scrubs at his eyes.

“Fenris.” Hawke approaches and crouches in front of him. Hawke, who shielded him from the enemy mage and carried him away from the battle. “Did they get to you? Or was it your markings again?”

“Only the lyrium.” He remembers that’s wrong—that woman’s mace-head landed in his side. But that is a minor injury and not worth mentioning. And anyway, he can hardly feel it right now. Everything else hurts far more. “I’m sorry. I will be more careful.”

“Right. We’re taking you back.”

Even without magic fueling it, the burn refuses to dull. His body is a cloud of steam, his strength long gone. Fenris nods, shutting his eyes for a moment. “This was the last of them, then?”

Hawke glances over his shoulder. “Doubt it. But we’re not going any further tonight.”

He curses himself. This should not happen. “No! We’ve come this far already, it would be foolish to stop—“

“Fenris, you’re going to get hurt—“

“I only need a few moments’ rest. I will be more cautious when we move on.”

“Fenris, _please—“_

Hawke reaches for him. Fenris jerks away and plants his hands on the dirt. Some rest, and he can figure out how to contain his accursed markings. With a great effort of will he rises all at once.

——

Someone is moving him.

Again. Fenris blinks, squinting. Darkness. The flicker of candlelight.

“Good evening. Morning. Something like that.”

The lyrium burn rushes into his awareness. He makes a small noise of pain and curls in on himself.

“Oh, Maker.” That’s Hawke, who’s standing over the bed in which he’s just deposited Fenris. “Well, I’ve brought you back to the estate and Bodahn’s not awake yet but if there’s anything you need, you can ask me.”

“What happened?” Fenris mumbles. It is not better. The burn still roars high and hot.

“You collapsed,” Hawke tells him. “Fainted, I suppose. Terrified the rest of us, but Anders said you’d live. He tried to heal that gash in your side but apparently your markings wouldn’t let him, so I wrapped it up instead and then put you on my back and carried you here. Can I get your armor off?”

Here. The Hawke estate. With a stomach-turning jolt of guilt, he looks to see if they are—no, not Hawke’s chambers, only a guest room. Still, he is here and they are alone together but not _together._ Because, for no reason at all, he could not bring himself to stay. The lyrium sparks, and he tightens his jaw and nods.

Hawke lifts Fenris’s arm gently and works at the buckles of his gauntlet. “I’ve never seen you like that before. Does it…happen often? Your markings hurting you like that?”

“No, not often. During my escape, at times, and…after I’d just had them branded into me.”

Hawke’s hands stutter, but then he pulls open the last buckle and draws Fenris’s gauntlet off. “You don’t have to just suffer through it anymore. You can stop and rest, Fenris. For as long as it takes for you to get better.” He moves to the other gauntlet. “You’re not running anymore, you’re not owned. Please, take care of yourself.”

Fenris is silent for a moment as Hawke strips his second gauntlet away and then starts on the spaulders. “I did not wish to inconvenience everyone else. Although…it seems I did anyway.”

“Fenris—I would _much_ rather carry you up the stairs to Hightown on my back ten times over than see you pushing yourself through pain I can only imagine is unbearable. You don’t deserve that kind of pain in the first place, let alone being put in a situation that’s only going to make it worse.”

Fenris flips over so Hawke can get at the other spaulder. “I used to be able to bear it,” he murmurs. “When it first happened, when I was very young.”

Hawke falters again. Then he grasps Fenris’s arm—which burns, but Fenris manages not to flinch. He desires the contact.

Hawke’s hand disappears, and then Fenris’s second spaulder comes away. The straps of his breastplate start to loosen. “You shouldn’t have had to,” Hawke says quietly.

That’s right. He shouldn’t have had to. Fenris has not thought about it in a long time. He was thirteen when the brands were lain into him, and they did not truly settle for weeks and weeks. But Danarius cared for him, Danarius was all he had. So he bore it, and he obeyed. “Can I—“

But he cuts himself off. Hawke finishes with the straps and pulls Fenris’s breastplate away. “Can you what?”

Fenris gazes at his hands, curled on the sheets. “Can I…tell you about it?”

The mattress shifts behind him. Hawke, sitting on the bed. “Of course. Of course you can tell me.”

Fenris thinks for a moment about where to start, then takes a breath.

——

He is thirteen and thinner even than most of the other slaves. The lyrium burns so deeply he suspects—fears—it is not only in his skin but engraved upon his bones as well, close enough to singe his heart and lungs, to blacken his muscles.

“You must get up, Fenris,” Danarius tells him.

“It hurts,” he whispers, and begins to cry.

Great, shuddering sobs. He had been containing it before, felt the pricking in his eyes and nose as his trainer came at him with the maneuvers they’d been practicing this afternoon. He held out for as long as he could, but every motion of his limbs only seemed to dig the brands in deeper, until he could not concentrate and the trainer’s blade thwacked into his stomach, making him double over and crash to his knees on the grass.

Danarius appears in his vision, crouching. He reaches out and strokes Fenris’s cheek, wiping away his tears. “It’s the lyrium, isn’t it?”

Another burst of sobbing. Fenris can only nod in response.

“I know it hurts, my dearest boy,” Danarius murmurs. “But you must get up. What if someone were trying to kill me? What would you do then? Would you sit on the ground and cry?”

Fenris shakes his head vehemently, sniffling. “I would—I would defend you.”

“Then why don’t you pretend that’s what’s happening now? Pretend this man is trying to assassinate me.” He nods at the trainer.

Fenris hiccups out another sob but picks up his wooden sword and wobbles to his feet, assuming an unsteady stance. Danarius steps away.

The trainer charges. Fenris watches him through eyes still blurred with tears. The man broadcasts a low jab—Fenris parries. There’s a counter for that, he knows, but he can’t remember it right now. The trainer twists into a pommel-strike. Fenris stumbles back, narrowly avoiding it. No. There was a block for that, he should have blocked.

A thrust straight at his chest. He can’t avoid it completely, and it jams into his ribs. He cries out. Another pommel-strike; this one hits home, smashing into his jaw and spinning him to the ground. His weapon flies out of his hand. A blunt wooden edge at his neck. Burns. The lyrium burns. He lies on the ground and chokes back a sob.

The hem of Danarius’s robes slides over the grass. “If you had fought like that, I’d be dead.”

“I’m sorry!” The words burst out of him. “I’m sorry, please, I’ll do better, it just—it _hurts,_ please, I only need to rest—“

“Hm.” Danarius crouches. Again that warm, dry hand on his face. “Yes, my little wolf. You can rest. You’ve done enough for this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

The trainer grabs him under the armpit and hauls him to his feet. Fenris staggers but manages not to fall, and he makes his way across the courtyard to the manor. Failed. He failed. He scrubs at his eyes and tries to hold the guilt back, lest he cry any more. He’s already embarrassed himself enough today. When he returns to his small room he lies upon the cot and closes his eyes. The pain is still there, yes, but fighting it has been exhausting, and he drops off to sleep before long, relieved to escape it at last.

When he wakes it is to a quiet scraping.

Close. In his room. Then the burning—his skin, his markings letting off a blue-white glow that illuminates—

The man standing by the closed door, holding a knife.

Fenris scrambles to his feet—and gasps in pain as the lyrium burn flares high. But the man is attacking, and Fenris must defend himself.

A stab to the heart. Fenris, terrified, smacks at the man’s arm and sends the blow sideways. The knife cuts into the flesh over his ribs, and he yells in pain. He can hardly see anything, the only light coming from his markings. The man backhands him, throwing him down to the cot. Frantic, Fenris kicks out, his heel meeting something solid. A grunt. Tears squeeze from his eyes. His body is on fire. But there is someone in his room trying to kill him. The man lunges. Fenris rolls away and clambers on his back.

The man stumbles, then turns and slams Fenris backwards into the wall—once, twice, three times. Each impact sends a new jolt through the white-hot channels of lyrium. Fenris cries out, his grip slackening. The man hurls him down onto the floor and kneels on his stomach, raising the knife and stabbing down.

As the blade descends Fenris grabs at the man’s wrist and heaves his whole body against it. The stab misses his throat but slices his ear. The impact on the stone must have jarred the man’s grip loose, because his hand springs open and his weapon clatters onto the floor.

Fenris isn’t thinking as he moves. He snatches up the knife and jams it into the man’s chest.

He makes a guttural noise, like the wind has been knocked out of him, and sags, collapsing. Fenris coughs as the body lands flat on top of him. The pommel of the knife pokes against his ribs. With a great effort he shoves the corpse to one side, leaving the knife stuck inside it. He drags himself away. His hand is sticky with blood.

Then he curls upon the stone floor. Without the battle as a distraction the pain takes control of him. He cannot bear it— _cannot,_ yet with each passing second it continues and he remains alive and awake. He cannot even weep; his chest is too tight, his throat locked closed. What just happened? Why did that man try to kill—

_Danarius._

He pushes himself to his feet and stumbles toward the door—crashes to his knees, crawls, grabs the door handle and hauls himself upright again, staggers out of his room. He cannot walk without falling, but if he leans on the wall he can make his way down the hall. _Danarius._ Assassins in the manor. He must make sure his master is safe. He turns the corner.

“Fenris! You’re hurt!”

Danarius sweeps down the hall, frowning in concern. Fenris slumps against the wall. “Are—are you—“

“I’m unharmed.” Danarius kneels. “No mundane assassin is going to kill me. But it seems they targeted you too.”

Fenris shakes his head. “I—I’m not hurt. It’s only—only a few cuts.”

“What happened?” Danarius urges. “You fought?”

Fenris nods, pressing his forehead into the wall. The coolness of the stone is welcome, a glimmer of reprieve from the lyrium burn. “He—he almost had me but I—I stabbed him, I think I killed him.”

“Oh, Fenris. I’m so proud of you.” Danarius strokes his hair. “You fended off an assassin even while you were in so much pain, and then you came looking for me straightaway. You see? You _can_ fight, even when your markings are hurting you.”

Fenris sits curled against the wall, trying to swallow the sobs that threaten to burst out of him. The pain isn’t important. He did well. Danarius is pleased.

“Would you like to sleep the rest of the night in my room?”

He looks up, hardly daring to believe it. Danarius smiles at him. “I imagine there’s blood all over your floor, after all. That can’t be very pleasant.”

Fenris gives him a jerky nod. “Y—yes, please, I would like that.”

“Excellent.” Danarius rises. “Come along.”

——

The candle sputters on the night table.

“He sent the assassin, of course,” Fenris continues. “A thrall, most likely. Instructed to attack me but not to strike the killing blow. He wanted to prove to me that I _could_ fight through the pain, so that he could hang it over my head later.”

Hawke sits hunched on the edge of the bed. “That’s awful.”

“That was the first time I killed for him,” Fenris mutters.

They’re quiet, the two of them waiting in the half-dark. They’ve done this before. Fenris comes here sometimes, and sometimes Hawke goes to the mansion, and they sit by the fire and talk and laugh. And then there’s nothing more either wants to say for the moment so they just gaze into the flames and wait until someone speaks again.

For a number of months Fenris, in these instances, had begun to think how nice it would be if he and Hawke were not on two separate armchairs but together on a divan, and they could sit close to each other and Fenris could perhaps even lean on Hawke. As time went on he started not only to think of it but also to want it, and then to yearn for it.

And then he came to Hawke’s house in the late evening and left mere hours later, having destroyed all that in one fell swoop. Yet now he reaches out to where Hawke’s hand lies on the bed and, hesitant, takes it—

The markings flare, and Fenris cannot contain the soft sound that makes its way out of him. Hawke grasps his hand and draws closer. “Fenris? What happened?”

“I’m sorry.” Tears well in his eyes, and he hates himself for succumbing like this. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t be here.”

“You—what? Why?”

“Because I hurt you. So I shouldn’t be—I shouldn’t be holding your hand or taking advantage of your kindness—“

“Fenris!” Hawke cuts him off. “You’re not taking advantage of anything. I _want_ to help you. I care about you. Quite a lot.”

Fenris flinches. “But I still—“

“You didn’t hurt me.”

Fenris looks up.

Hawke squeezes his hand. “It’s true that I wanted to be with you. Want to. But I’m fairly sure you want to be with me too, only something’s keeping you back. _That’s_ what hurt us. Both of us. I don’t blame you for it, not even a little.”

“You—“ He curls in on himself a little more. “You’re not…annoyed with me?”

“I—Fenris, no. Never.” Hawke leans down and kisses his forehead. “I’m just as happy spending time with you now as I was two weeks ago. Except when you decide to be mulish and insist on forging ahead when clearly you’re in pain.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“When I saw you collapse…” Hawke trails off, then exhales. “Please take care of yourself. I just—I can’t tell you how much you mean to me. And whether or not we’re together doesn’t have any bearing on that.”

Fenris turns it over in his head. It shouldn’t make sense, and yet— “So…you’re not disappointed in me.”

“No, I’m not. I know you must have had good reason to leave.” Hawke lifts Fenris’s hand and kisses his fingers. “If you ever want to try it again, I’ll be right here. But until then, I’m perfectly happy to go on as we were before. If—if you want that.”

“Yes,” Fenris says hurriedly. “I—would like that very much.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” He grins. “When you’ve rested some and you’re feeling better, how about I break out a bottle of—“

Fenris starts. “It’s gone!”

“What? Your pain’s gone?”

“Well—not quite.” Still the dull, tight ache, the sparks racing through his markings, around and around. “But it’s better. I can manage it now.”

Relief breaks on Hawke’s face, a welcome sight. “I’m glad to hear it.”

The lull in the pain is something Fenris had not dared hope for, so it strikes him as an entirely new sensation, despite the fact that this is how he feels most days. He smiles. “Thank you for taking me out of the tunnels. I…forget, sometimes. That things are different here.”

“They are. You don’t have to be put yourself through pain like that, not anymore.” Hawke holds Fenris’s hand in both of his own. “You can stay here as long as you like. Bodahn’s a great cook, and you know you’ll have me fussing over you every second I can spare.”

“Hawke?”

“Hm?”

Fenris shrinks a little. “You…also mean a great deal to me. I know I am—distant, at times. But please, never doubt that I care about you.”

“I know, Fenris.” Hawke strokes his fingers. “You don’t need to say it all the time. I know.”

Fenris gazes at their joined hands. He wishes they could have this. But then again, he supposes they already do.

Then Hawke rises, stretching with a groan. “Listen, I’m going to go get you some water and some extra blankets and then you’re going to have a nice long rest, all right?”

“Yes. All right.”

“Good.” Hawke goes out into the hall and shuts the door behind him, leaving Fenris alone.

Fenris pulls the blankets over him and watches the flickering candle burn lower. He’s exhausted, but he wants to stay awake until Hawke gets back, to see him just one more time before drifting off to sleep.

But _things are different here,_ he reminds himself. Hawke will be there tomorrow, and the day after, and a hundred more beyond. Or a thousand, or even more than that.

_If you ever want to try it again, I’ll be right here._

Fenris shuts his eyes. It may remain outside his grasp for some time; but he does not think the wait will be so bad.


End file.
